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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622001">The Tale of the Champion (Who Didn’t Want To Be the Champion)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen'>TheIcyQueen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Post-Dragon Age II Quest - Demands of the Qun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:20:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622001</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After her duel with the Arishok, Hawke has some trouble getting to sleep. Ah, but lucky for her, she just so happens to be spending her convalescence with Kirkwall's favorite author! When she asks him to tell her a story to help her get to sleep, Varric obliges, but the tale's an awfully familiar one. Hawke can't help feeling that maybe she's heard it before...but if there's one thing Varric's good at, it's surprising his audience.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Hawke/Varric Tethras</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hightown Funk 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Tale of the Champion (Who Didn’t Want To Be the Champion)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mannelig/gifts">mannelig</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”</p>
<p>“Can’t.” Hawke heaved a sigh as she said it, intending for it to come across as a joking, playful thing…only to cringe inwardly when she heard the sound out loud. She’d missed ‘playful’ by a country mile and, by her measure at least, had instead managed to land squarely in ‘pathetic.’ She set down the book she’d lifted from one of the side tables after pretending to read the front matter, making her way to him as casually as she could while still hiding the worst of her limp. “No idea how <em>you</em> do it, honestly…all the shouting and clanging…”</p>
<p>Varric breathed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Says the woman whose mutt—”</p>
<p>“War hound.”</p>
<p>“War hound, uh huh, my apologies, serah—says the woman whose <em>war hound</em> is just constantly bellowing at its own shadow…”</p>
<p>She rested her arms on the ridge marking the top of his chair and leaned her weight against the back of it. Much as she wanted to pretend she <em>didn’t</em>, she felt exhaustion’s insistent tug on every last one of her muscles, leading her to lower her chin to her arms and close her eyes in a half-hearted attempt to keep it at bay. Sleep wouldn’t come, but fatigue? Oh, fatigue was fast becoming an old friend of hers, a hanger-on she simply couldn’t seem to shake. “That’s different and you know it.”</p>
<p>“I <em>don’t</em> know it, actually.” With her eyes shut as they were it was hard to tell, but she thought the papery rustle that followed the statement meant Varric was starting a new page.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well…you’d understand if you were Fereldan.”</p>
<p>“Alas Hawke, the Maker in all of His divine wisdom saw fit to make me a Marcher instead of a mud-farming dog lord, so I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”</p>
<p>She hummed a little chuckle of her own, but no matter how hard she tried, found she couldn’t come up with anything sufficiently witty to follow it up with. Figured. Well that was probably for the best—she had to assume writing was hard enough on its own, but writing <em>and</em> carrying on a snappy repartee at the same time? Impossible. Unthinkable. And since she was already leeching off of his hospitality…</p>
<p>All right, ‘leeching’ was perhaps going a bit far. He had, after all, always been very clear about his—<em>ahem—</em>palatial suite at the Hanged Man being <em>her</em> palatial suite at the Hanged Man…then again, none of those offers had been made when she was bleeding quite so much.</p>
<p>One of her ribs throbbed as though in agreement. Ugh.</p>
<p>It was <em>also </em>probably for the best that she couldn’t remember those first few days after the duel. If she really strained herself, she could pull up a few blurry images: the shadow of the Viscount’s throne, worried faces, the feathers of Anders’s pauldrons dark with blood, worried faces, the Knight-Commander’s disgusted sneer, more worried faces…honestly it was mostly worried faces, now that she was thinking about it, and none had been more worried than Varric’s.</p>
<p>Hawke didn’t like thinking about what that meant, didn’t like wondering how bad off she must’ve been there at the start if <em>this</em> was what she felt like now. Mostly, though, she didn’t like what it might’ve meant that <em>Varric</em> had been so concerned; in all their years of knowing each other, he’d reacted to even her worst bruises and bloodied knuckles with little more than an eye-roll and a shake of his head, maybe an incredulous “<em>Again?</em>” or “What did you get into <em>this time?</em>”</p>
<p>But since she’d woken up, something had…changed. He’d been a fixture at her bedside, there even when the others had given up and gone home. She’d come to mark the passage of time by the pages that had piled up next to him, the inkwells that had run dry. Again, there wasn’t much she could recall, but that much she knew—that each and every time the haze had lifted from her mind and the pain had let her think for even a moment, he’d been right there. And when she’d returned to herself enough to feel the horrible emptiness of the estate pressing down on her from all angles, he’d insisted on her staying with him instead.</p>
<p>Hawke couldn’t help but wonder whether he thought she might vanish into a puff of smoke if she wasn’t in his direct line of sight. Vanish or, Maker forbid, keel over dead.</p>
<p>Hmm. Cheerful.</p>
<p>“Are you my editor now? Is that what this is?”</p>
<p>She blinked herself out of that unpleasant line of thought, readjusting her position to take some of the weight off her injured knee as she leaned against the back of his chair. “Your editor? I’m an idiot, Varric, not a masochist.”</p>
<p>His eye-roll was positively audible. “All right, wiseass,” he said, clearly trying to sound authoritative but coming across wryly amused at best. “<em>Please</em> go lie down. <em>Please</em> sleep. Do you have any idea the bitching and moaning I’ll have to endure from Blondie if any of those stitches of yours tear?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “<em>A lot</em>.”</p>
<p>Hawke winced at the mention of the stitches. They, much like her ribs, took that moment to reassert their presence with a dull, throbbing ache. Healing magic, as she’d come to learn during her tenure in Kirkwall, only went so far…and she had a nasty, nasty habit of falling farther.</p>
<p>“All I’ve done for the past week is lie down,” she pointed out, and not without a touch of petulance, “What I <em>need </em>to be doing is stretching my legs. Get the blood pumping, as the saying goes. I mean…what would the good people of Kirkwall say if they saw their new Champion laying about like…like a…” Oh dear sweet Maker, she could handle the internal bleeding, but this marked difficulty with snappy comebacks was quickly becoming more than just a little distressing. “…well, like a layabout?”</p>
<p>That certainly seemed to get Varric’s attention. He set his pen down and twisted around in his chair to fix her with a look made of equal parts pity and fondness. She couldn’t quite figure out which part of that look struck her heart harder. “Hawke.”</p>
<p>“Varric.”</p>
<p>“I say this as your friend: Go sleep.”</p>
<p>“I’ve <em>tried!</em> You act like it’s <em>easy</em> to drift off into a peaceful, rejuvenating slumber when all of your bones are—”</p>
<p>“And I say <em>this</em> as your business partner—your business partner whose livelihood is upsettingly dependent upon your ability to, oh what’s the phrase…not be dead: <em>Go. Sleep.</em>”</p>
<p>That got a laugh out of her—a real, honest-to-goodness laugh—and while that felt like its own sort of miracle, it also sent another pang of pain shooting through her ribs, so it didn’t last nearly as long as she would’ve liked. “Fine, fine…” she said, heaving herself away from his chair with a grunt that couldn’t quite decide whether it was borne more of exertion or discomfort or a heady combination of the two. “I’ll lie down. Can’t promise sleep, though. Not unless drastic measures are taken.”</p>
<p>“‘Drastic measures,’ huh?” Varric asked dryly, “Dare I even ask?”</p>
<p>Her retreat wasn’t nearly as graceful as her entrance had been, and that was saying something. Leaning in that position for even that long, it seemed, had been all the permission her aching muscles had needed to lock themselves into stiff, unyielding knots, meaning she had little choice but to amble back towards the alcove of his bedroom with the gangly stride of a nug caught in a hunter’s line.</p>
<p>“Oh, you have no idea, Varric…you probably don’t know this about me, but since rising to the top of Kirkwall’s elite, my nightly routine has become a thing of decadence and ridiculousness. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s the sort of excess <em>expected</em> of noble houses like mine.”</p>
<p>“I know you did things a little differently back in Ferelden, but allow me to clear something up for you: A cup of warm milk hardly constitutes decadence.”</p>
<p>Another laugh…quickly followed by another grimace. She hurt like hell, there was no doubt about that, but even then it was impossible to keep from smiling. There was something so comforting about their back-and-forth, something that went beyond a feeling of normalcy. Now of course, that idea of normalcy, of things maybe not being perfect but at least being <em>okay, </em>was part of it; it just didn’t feel like the whole story.</p>
<p>“<em>A </em>cup of warm milk? Oh no. Oh nonono, you misunderstand. I need <em>at</em> <em>least</em> a single cup of warm milk—with honey and cinnamon, <em>of course</em>—my sheets need to be doused in only the sweetest smelling oils—” she heard Varric snort aloud at that one, “—I require a retinue of no fewer than three but no more than six musicians playing traditional Fereldan folk songs in the next room, and most importantly, it takes upwards of ten minutes of someone tenderly stroking my hair before I can even <em>consider</em> falling asleep these days.” Hawke lowered herself onto the bed, wincing every inch of the way now that Varric couldn’t see her. “So as I said, I’ll <em>try</em>, but my hopes aren’t high. I’ve gotten used to a very specific way of living, you understand. Noble living.”</p>
<p>“Yeah…not too sure I can help with any of that.”</p>
<p>“No lutists on hand, eh?”</p>
<p>“I could ask Corff if he’s hiding any in the back, I guess, but the chances of them knowing any traditional Fereldan folk songs are—”</p>
<p>“Pretty slim, yeah, I’d imagine as much.” She bit back a groan as she eased herself down onto the pillows, searching in vain for a position that could ease some of the strain of her back and legs. And arms. And shoulders. …and everything else, really. “You could always come stroke my hair,” she teased, hoping the lilt in her voice would cover the fact she was only half-joking. When it came to that sort of thing, she was <em>always </em>only half-joking.</p>
<p>With <em>him</em>, anyway. It was easier that way.</p>
<p>“Or…oh! You could tell me a story! That’s what you’re supposed to be good at, isn’t it? Stories?” Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t help but grin at the indignant sputter she got in reply.</p>
<p>“<em>Supposed to be </em>good at? One more crack like that, <em>O Glorious Champion of Kirkwall</em>, and I’ll see to it that Norah and Edwina drag you out of here kicking and screaming. Well…flailing and whining, at least. You look a little past the energy it takes to kick.”</p>
<p>The sprawl she ended up finding wasn’t perhaps the most delicate or ladylike of positions, but it would have to do. Her eyes fell closed and her body sank into the coverlet of his bed. “Methinks the dwarf doth protest too much.”</p>
<p>That time it was <em>his</em> turn to groan. And oh, what a beautiful sound it was, because Hawke knew it meant he was absolutely, positively, unquestionably about to humor her stupid request. “How about <em>The Elf Who Never Smiled</em>? That’s always a fan-favorite.”</p>
<p>Oh, it hurt to laugh—it hurt to laugh! “I know that one already. One day he finds a really big stick that he uses to smack other people around, and only then does he learn how to smile for real. Try again.”</p>
<p>“Hmm…what about…<em>Five Times Daisy Used Blood Magic and One Time She Didn’t</em>?”</p>
<p>“I’ve heard that one too. The one time she doesn’t use blood magic ends rather badly, and if I’m being completely honest? I’m not sure I ever really walk away understanding the moral you’re trying to impose.”</p>
<p>“Everyone’s a critic…ambiguity can be an important aspect of telling a compelling story, Hawke.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Well. For future reference, I didn’t ask for a <em>compelling </em>story, I asked for a <em>bedtime </em>story, and if I may say so, your idea of what constitutes one of <em>those</em> is deeply, deeply flawed, my fine dwarven friend.”</p>
<p>“<em>Hard in Hightown</em>?”</p>
<p>At that, she opened her eyes for the sole purpose of rolling them. “I’m not listening to <em>Hard in Hightown, </em>Varric. Not <em>again</em>.” She turned her head just slightly, letting the downy fluff of his pillow envelope the better part of her face, and suggested (more as an afterthought than anything else), “What about whatever it is you’re writing now?” Had she not been so absorbed by trying to swallow back a considerable yawn, she might’ve noticed the silence brought on by the suggestion. “You’ve been scribbling like mad, the past few days…there’s got to be something salvageable in there, no?”</p>
<p>The ambient sounds of the Hanged Man could again be heard from outside the suite. Wood creaking under heavy boots, glasses clanking, unidentifiable voices pitching up and down as they moved from insults to jokes and back again. Then, just when she thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her, that she’d need to repeat herself, Varric responded.</p>
<p>“Yeah…I really don’t think you’d like this one too much.”</p>
<p>“Hmm, see, now you’ve piqued my interest! If it’s been enough to hold <em>your</em> attention for this long, I’m certain a lowly dog lord such as myself would be more than entertained by it.” Sleep felt no closer, but the longer she lay there, the easier it felt to talk, to smile, to laugh—and those were the things she’d been missing the most dearly since the Arishok had done his best to separate her head from the rest of her body, so she planned on taking full advantage of it. “Come on.”</p>
<p>“I <em>really</em> don’t think—”</p>
<p>“Can I at least get the title, then?” she teased, “Something to tide me over until the grand release where I can clutch my leather-bound first edition to my bosom and beg the author for an autograph?” Yes! Yes, she could feel herself slowly coming back into her own, and oh it felt so…all right, maybe not good, she was still probably a fair ways away from good, but definitely <em>better</em>.</p>
<p>Even from the next room she could hear him exhale. “It’s, uh, hmm.” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice that she wasn’t at all accustomed to hearing, and that only served to deepen her curiosity. He should’ve known better than that. “It’s <em>The Tale of the Champion</em>, actually.”</p>
<p>Without meaning to, she’d opened her eyes again. “Oh,” was the only thing she was able to manage there for a moment, something in her chest having gone suspiciously tight at the revelation. “…it’s a bit of a shit title, if you don’t mind a little friendly advice.”</p>
<p>Varric chuckled, but unless she was wrong, Hawke thought she could still detect a hint of that same uncertainty lurking just below the surface. “You could do better?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say <em>that</em>.” Blinking at the wall, she tried to make it work in her head. Was he having her on, maybe? It seemed like a strange joke to pull on someone who was convalescing, that much was certain. But the thought of him being <em>serious</em>, the idea that those stacks and stacks of pages he’d been filling like a madman since she’d first opened her eyes were about <em>her</em>…well she wasn’t sure she knew how she felt about that. That was a lot to write about someone. A lot of time and thought and effort. Just…a lot.</p>
<p>“No, no, if you’ve got such strong opinions about it, then hey, you do better, huh?”</p>
<p>“Oh, have I hit a nerve, Master Tethras?” To her own ears, it sounded convincingly flippant, and that would have to do for now. “What about…<em>The Tale of the Champion…Who Didn’t Want to Be the Champion</em>?”</p>
<p>“Succinct. Really rolls off the tongue.”</p>
<p>“Considering only one of us in this room has had the great honor of being bestowed the title, I think I would know the feelings of any fictional Champion much better than you. Whoever your poor protagonist is, she—” she paused, deciding whether or not to commit to the oblivious act, “—or he…<em>they</em> probably aren’t terribly happy about the whole thing.”</p>
<p>“You’re right on that much, at least. I wouldn’t exactly say she’s been having the time of her life.”</p>
<p>Hawke swallowed, distantly aware of how scratchy her throat felt. In comparison to all the others, it was a dull, unimportant sort of ache. “You know, if you’d quit dancing around it and just tell me the story already, I could probably provide all sorts of valuable insights into the Champion experience. I know how prone you are to exaggeration, so…”</p>
<p>“<em>Exaggeration,</em>” Varric scoffed, “The word you’re looking for is ‘embellishment.’”</p>
<p>“It’s not.”</p>
<p>Another moment passed where the suite was quiet and still, the sounds of the tavern filling the gaps in their conversation. On any normal day, those sounds would’ve made her thirsty; now she felt strangely disconnected from them, as though they were coming from a different life instead of a different room.</p>
<p>And then, nearly as subtle as the rasp in her throat, she heard the small <em>clink</em> of a pen being set down. “I’m not <em>reading</em> it,” he warned, “But I can give you the main beats.”</p>
<p>“Be still my heart.” Though it pained her to do so, Hawke shifted one leg then the other, tucking herself under his blankets instead of lying on top of them. “Start it ‘Once upon a time,’ if you don’t mind. That’s how bedtime stories are supposed to begin, I think.”</p>
<p>He made a noise that could’ve been a sigh just as easily as a chuckle. “Once upon a time…” Varric began, his tone jovial but still carrying that faint note of uncertainty, as though some part of him worried of saying too much or not enough or maybe simply picking the wrong words. “There was a Champion.”</p>
<p>“…who didn’t <em>want</em> to be the Champion.”</p>
<p>“She did <em>not</em>,” Varric conceded, “She never really <em>saw</em> herself as a Champion of anything…she wasn’t the sort to care about titles, not when there were other things to worry about. See, where the story begins, the Champion—who isn’t officially a Champion just yet—is running. She’s running from the Blight, running from only home she’s ever really known, the place where she was raised, the place where her father’s ashes are spread, and as the eldest, she feels that it’s her job, her <em>responsibility</em>, to keep the rest of her family safe as they run.”</p>
<p>“A thrilling introduction.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you haven’t heard <em>anything</em> yet. As they run, they find themselves face-to-face with legend incarnate: A Witch of the Wilds—<em>The</em> Witch of the Wilds—a dragon of a woman made entirely of spite and cryptic advice. She’s impressed by the Champion’s ardor, or maybe she feels some sort of pity, recognizing in her some sort of kindred spirit, and so she whisks the family far, far away from the ravages of the Blight to a new world entirely. But…”</p>
<p>Hawke closed her eyes again, telling herself she was simply resting her eyes and not bracing for impact. All at once, Flemeth’s voice was in her head, ringing there like the tolling of the Chantry’s bells at night, reminding her not of what had been said just outside of Lothering, Bethany’s body growing cold on the scorched ground behind her, but later, on Sundermount: <em>It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly</em>. She thought she’d probably fallen more than enough for one lifetime…Maker help her, though, it didn’t seem she’d figured out the whole ‘flying’ thing.</p>
<p>“That help had come a little too late. In the madness of their escape, the Champion lost her sister. And there was nothing she or the rest of her family could do but carry on and hope they could make that loss mean something by continuing to live, themselves.” Varric cleared his throat, and she could almost <em>see</em> him flapping one of his hands to hurry himself along in her mind’s eye, “Then there’s this whole boring part with a boat…I’m thinking I’ll probably axe that in the second draft.”</p>
<p>“And disappoint Bela? You know how much the woman loves big boats. Axe that and you’ve lost yourself a reader, serah.” Thinking about Lothering, about Bethany, about <em>Father</em>…she was glad for the excuse to make a joke. Joking was, of course, easier.</p>
<p>“Well <em>regardless</em>, the Champion awakes one morning to find herself in an entirely new world…a city of chains. An old place, its roots ancient and dipped in bronze that’s gone green at the edges where they meet the sea, its cobblestones set out in mazelike patterns to ward off spirits or maybe just confuse the foreigners. It’s not her home, she doubts it ever <em>could</em> be, but before too long she’s carved herself out a comfortable niche in the underworld, her desire to keep her family alive outweighing her fear of bleeding out in back alleys.</p>
<p>“And then, one day, blessed Andraste on her side, she has the best run of luck she’s ever had in her life: Upon being accosted by a common hoodlum, she meets a devilishly handsome rogue—”</p>
<p>The sting of her memories immediately flew out the proverbial window at that. “A devilishly handsome rogue?” she repeated, her laughter giving way to a dry, hacking cough for a moment, “Oooh, see, <em>now</em> you’ve hooked me! That’s where you should’ve started!”</p>
<p>She could hear him snickering from outside the door, and unless she was mistaken, she thought he sounded closer somehow, as though perhaps he’d moved his chair or turned it around so she could better hear him. “Ah ah ah, don’t get ahead of me now. There are <em>plenty</em> of zany characters she picks up along the way. There’s…let’s see…there’s a pirate queen whose jokes are almost as ribald as her choice in clothing, a feathery apostate who talks too much and sleeps not enough, a sweet Dalish girl whose smile belies her affinity for more dangerous magic, a grim warrior from Tevinter set on revenge and redemption, a guardswoman with fiery hair and a heart of gold…all very compelling in their own right, all balancing the Champion out with their wide array of dysfunctional personalities. Or, more often than not, encouraging her awful behavior in their own unique ways.”</p>
<p>Hearing him describe their merry gang of ne’er-do-wells like that tickled her endlessly. He always knew how to spin things into a story, Varric, even things as banal and familiar as their friends. But what got her, though, what <em>really </em>made her laugh, was his obvious omission. “Aren’t you missing someone?” she asked, unable to keep from grinning despite the way it made her jaw ache.</p>
<p>“Mmm,” Varric hummed contemplatively, “Don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“There’s not, say…a displaced prince in shining armor, or…?”</p>
<p>“No idea what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>She snorted so hard that her sinuses throbbed and she had to press her fingers to her face. “You’re sure.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what to tell you, Hawke…can’t say I’ve got a character like that in here.”</p>
<p>“Ah. Sorry. Of course. How foolish of me. Carry on, carry on.” Sighing, she once more tried to find a comfortable position to lie in, tugging the covers up as far as she could without her shoulders lodging a formal complaint. As it turned out? Not that far at all. “Tell me more about that devilishly handsome rogue you mentioned before,” she suggested, “I have this…uncanny suspicion that you’ve gotten <em>his</em> character fairly fleshed out.”</p>
<p>She could hear him chuckle along with her for a moment. “Eh, story’s not about him.”</p>
<p>Again she felt that familiar tightening in her chest, its tendrils wending their way around her ribs and squeezing gently. What she wanted to say in that moment was that there <em>was </em>no story of Kirkwall’s unwitting (and un<em>willing</em>) Champion without him, that to focus on her without bringing attention to him was tantamount to telling the story of the Golden City without mentioning the Maker…but she was tired, and her body ached, and so what she actually said was, “It could be,” hoping deep down that some part of him understood what she’d meant.</p>
<p>“I’m less sure about that. He plays his own part, believe you me…he introduces the someday Champion to his devilishly <em>conniving </em>brother, you see, and that brother brings the lot of them down into the Deep Roads to search for gold, fortune, fame…all the things the Champion never really cared about. And though the Deep Roads are known for claiming victims left and right without discrimination, the Champion leads their little expedition out of harm’s way at every turn, saving their necks where even the most hardened Wardens might’ve fallen…at least until that devilishly handsome rogue’s devilishly conniving brother decides to stab them all in the back.</p>
<p>“And even <em>still</em> the Champion prevails! She finds a way to navigate the Deep Roads, slices her way through ancient thaigs and the unknowable things thought to be buried within them, but again, there’s a cost. She saves their lives…and then loses her brother to the Blight. It’s not fair, that irony—she’d been so sure they’d outrun it before, that they’d escaped its clutches, but there, miles and miles under the city that had given them shelter from the darkspawn, it takes her brother all the same.” Varric’s voice dropped off then, though only for a moment. “I really don’t think this is the kind of story you want to be hearing, Hawke. Seriously, I think this chapter of <em>Hard in Hightown </em>I’ve been working on—”</p>
<p>“That’s an awful lot of losing that your Champion does.”</p>
<p>From the main room of the suite, Varric exhaled. To her it sounded suspiciously like a sigh. “It is. It <em>is</em> a lot, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Now I don’t pretend to be a writer, Varric…honestly, I’m lucky that half the words that come out of my mouth on any given day make the slightest amount of sense, but it seems to me that the main character of a story like this should…<em>win </em>more often than not, you know? Your girl here? I’m not hearing about too many victories. Not very Champion-like behavior.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she wins. Believe me on that one, Hawke, she wins. If you haven’t heard me say that much, maybe you haven’t been listening: She flees before the Blight can claim her entire family, she earns the begrudging attention of a living legend, that ill-fated trip to the Deep Roads makes her a rich enough woman that she finds herself getting invited to an Orlesian Duke’s lavish tourney as a guest of honor…she wins! The losing’s just…well, it’s <em>louder</em>.”</p>
<p>Louder. That was one way of putting it. “You’re the professional, I suppose. But still, don’t you think the story would be better if you had a Champion that was, say, heroic and victorious and blah blah blah, laurels perched upon her head and applause following her through the town square and flower petals and blushing virgins thrown at her feet? Adventure stories like these sort of <em>require </em>that, don’t they? Having a hero you can—”</p>
<p>“Never said this story was an adventure.”</p>
<p>Her mouth turned down in confusion. Slowly, <em>carefully</em>, Hawke forced herself to sit up once more, Varric’s pillows wedged between her back and the headboard. “…it’s…this isn’t supposed to be an adventure?”</p>
<p>“It’s not.”</p>
<p>“They’re…they’re running through the Deep Roads and slaying darkspawn. There was a fancy tourney you mentioned there. They <em>meet</em> a <em>dragon, </em>and it’s…it’s <em>not</em> an adventure story?”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>Hawke swore she could still hear that strange, discordant note of uncertainty in his voice, but she couldn’t even begin to piece together what that might’ve meant. The idea that he’d be writing about her was one thing—mystifying and flattering in turn—but the idea that he’d frame her story as anything other than some rags-to-riches tale was something else entirely. She thought she felt a headache forming somewhere between her eyes, and she doubted very much that it had anything to do with the Arishok. “…this could very well just be the head trauma talking, but I am at a loss for where you’re taking this, then.”</p>
<p>Varric took his sweet time in responding. “If you <em>have</em> to know, it’s…” he cleared his throat again, and something about the sound made Hawke glad she’d decided to sit up after all.</p>
<p>How long had the two of them known one another? And in that time, she thought she could likely count the number of times she’d heard this sort of anxiety in his voice on one hand…and even then, most of those instances had accompanied Bartrand’s betrayal.</p>
<p>“It’s a love story.”</p>
<p>She was suddenly acutely aware of her pulse fluttering in her neck and wrists. “A <em>love</em> story?” Hawke asked, feeling as though she’d misheard him. That was possible, wasn’t it? That she was somehow hearing what she wanted to hear? Her quip about head trauma had been a joke, but…</p>
<p>Varric didn’t correct her. “If you’d let me continue…” he said, and she had the strangest sense he was gearing himself up in much the same way she was. It seemed possible, if not <em>likely</em>, that she wasn’t the only one in the suite whose stomach was a mess of writhing, wriggling knots.</p>
<p>For the first time in a week, her aches and pains weren’t the focus of her attention. “By all means.”</p>
<p>“After escaping the Deep Roads, the future Champion and the devilishly handsome rogue find themselves very wealthy people. As it turns out, sometimes treasure hunting results in treasure <em>finding!</em> Who would’ve guessed? With these newfound riches, the Champion buys back her birthright—her family’s old estate—allowing her mother to live the life she feels she deserves.</p>
<p>“Then, when she thinks the world has taken all it can take from her, the Champion loses her mother, too. Loses her to a maniac, a <em>monster</em>, and suddenly…she’s all that remains of her family. There’s no winning edge to that one. Nothing balances out the scales—nothing <em>could</em>. So the Champion keeps moving. She can’t <em>stop</em>. And that’s all right, because neither can the devilishly handsome rogue. They have that in common—the fear that if they stop, if they let themselves rest, that everything will catch up to them. So they don’t let that happen. And not to jump around and muddle the narration here, but the devilishly handsome rogue also knows firsthand what it feels like to be the only one left…to live with the fallout. It’s something <em>else</em> they have in common: Watching their mothers die and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it from happening. That sort of loss numbs something in you, I think. Numbs or kills, I’m not really sure.”</p>
<p>“Probably a little of Column A, a little of Column B.” The lump had come unbidden to her throat, and for more than one reason, she wouldn’t wonder.</p>
<p>“Probably. Anyway. She throws herself into doing everything—<em>anything</em>—to keep from thinking about it. From the moment she wakes up until the moment she falls asleep, she breathes for the city and its people, cleaning up the messes others have made and left behind, shouldering the blame for a sickness that’s rotted its bones for centuries…and then one day, she does something really, really, <em>incredibly</em> stupid.” It wasn’t a break she heard in his voice then, nor was it a crack, but it was <em>something</em>.</p>
<p>She couldn’t figure out through the mess of her thoughts why that something filled her stomach with hope. Then, unsure whether she was doing it to change the subject or confirm that anxious gnawing in her gut, she swallowed hard and interrupted him. “A <em>thousand </em>pardons, Varric, but I thought you said this was supposed to be a <em>love</em> story. So far all you’ve given me is pulse-pounding adventure and enough drama to choke a courtier, but where, pray tell, does the love come in?” She paused, worried that the next part would come out wrong…too obvious, too hopeful. “Who is it that’s in love with her, exactly?”</p>
<p>“Everyone,” he said without missing a beat. The shift in topic, it seemed, had been fine by him—as he spoke, falling out of the groove of recounting the events of the story to answer her question, he began to sound more like his usual self, no trace of that earlier strain remaining. “That’s the thing about her…she has this uncanny knack for turning everyone around her into besotted morons. It’s actually rather impressive, if you ask me…a real talent.”</p>
<p>“Everyone,” Hawke repeated, and oh, it was difficult to bite back the scoff that accompanied that particular thought, “I sincerely doubt <em>everyone’s</em> in love with her, Varric. The woman sounds like an absolute maniac. I can’t imagine even <em>one</em> person—”</p>
<p>Almost as though reciting verse, he ticked them off one by one, only succeeding in making Hawke roll her eyes harder. “The pirate queen offers her the open sea, freedom, plenty of booty—and I <em>do </em>mean that in whatever sense of the word you’d prefer—the sweet Dalish girl thinks the sun rises and sets wherever she walks, the grim warrior from Tevinter has on more than one occasion given her his heart…by which I do mean a heart he tore out of someone else’s chest, usually still beating, often with other organs attached…”</p>
<p>There was no fighting the laugh that time. “The guardswoman?” Hawke prompted through a smirk, “The one with the, uh…what was it? Fiery heart of…no, no, heart of gold and fiery hair. What about her?”</p>
<p>“Her love’s more subtle. Present mostly in the fact that she hasn’t strangled the Champion to death yet.”</p>
<p>“Ah. Of course.” Bracing herself against the headboard, she let her head loll back until she was looking up towards the ceiling, eyes tracing the cracks in the plaster as though they might spell out what she needed to say next. They didn’t, surprisingly enough, and so she tried to quell that fluttering in her stomach once more. “And the devilishly handsome rogue?”</p>
<p>“Oh, the feathery apostate, by the way, has threatened to drown the city in its own blood for her, too. I’d hate to leave that one out.”</p>
<p>“And the devilishly handsome rogue?” she repeated.</p>
<p>His pause went on for a breath longer than she would’ve expected. “I already <em>told you</em>, Hawke…story’s not about him.”</p>
<p>Oh no. Oh no, no, no. If he thought she was going to let this drop, he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the character arc he claimed to be writing. “Well it’s supposed to be <em>my</em> story, to help <em>me</em> sleep, so perhaps you go off-script for a second and give me a peek into your author’s notes. You sat there only moments ago <em>insisting</em> that <em>everyone</em> was in love with your exhausting Champion who doesn’t want to be Champion. I simply want to know whether or not you’re counting your devilishly handsome rogue among that number. Is that so much to ask?”</p>
<p>“What do you think, Hawke?” he asked after another long moment where the seconds stretched and stretched until they strained at their seams.</p>
<p>“I <em>think</em>,” she said, more than a little alarmed to realize her heart hadn’t been pounding half so hard when she’d looked up into the Arishok’s dour face and accepted his challenge, the Viscount’s blood still tacky on his armor, “That you’re the author, so it’s your job to <em>tell me</em> what to think.” When he took too long to answer, she changed tack, asking, “Is <em>she</em> in love with any of them? The others?”</p>
<p>There was another beat of silence that she felt more than she heard. Then, “I haven’t made up my mind on that one yet.”</p>
<p>Instead of replying straight away, she hummed softly, adjusting her position again. It seemed impossible, even laughable, that she’d fall asleep now. Or ever again. “Ah, quite the pickle for a writer to be in, I’m sure. But if you don’t mind my saying so, again, as the resident expert on Champions and the inner workings of their complicated, <em>complicated </em>heads…if she hasn’t taken any of her colorful retinue up on their offers by this point in the story…and from what you’ve told me, we must be…where? Nearing the end of Act 2, I’d imagine? If she’s not with any of them despite their <em>extremely </em>tempting offers of both blood and booty, that’s probably an answer in itself, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>“Is it?”</p>
<p>“<em>Isn’t</em> it?” Hawke swallowed hard. She took a breath, let it out, grit what was left of her resolve, and did everything in her power to keep her voice light. “Like you’ve said, I’m sure I’m missing key details and…nuance, and all those other things your readers will no doubt be fanning themselves over soon, but speaking <em>as</em> a Champion who doesn’t want to be Champion, maybe…maybe there’s a reason she’s not with any of them. Maybe she knows someone <em>else</em> with a knack for making people fall in love them, and maybe she <em>has</em>, because they have so much in common and they’re such good friends and it’s just so…easy. But…but maybe you’re right, that losing is always louder for her, and so when she thinks about saying anything, or…or doing anything to let him know she feels that way…she’s just so scared she’ll lose him, too.”</p>
<p>The Hanged Man had never been so quiet.</p>
<p>Varric spoke up again after what might’ve been a lifetime, but he only had chance enough to get out a single word, “Why—” before Hawke answered, the words spilling out of her like bad blood from any of her many various wounds, unpleasant to purge but necessary for the healing to begin.</p>
<p>“I don’t pretend to know your protagonist, but if she <em>was</em> scared like that, maybe it’s because she feels like there might be someone else? Someone whose name comes up often enough to make her wonder…” She looked down at her hands, frowning at the bruises on her knuckles, the blood dried under her nails, and forced herself to laugh. “Or, you know, maybe once he made some witty comment about her being too tall for him or her legs being too long or something equally demoralizing for someone with an ego as overinflated as hers, who’s to say? The possibilities abound.”</p>
<p>“He is.”</p>
<p>She glanced up from her hands at the sound of his voice.</p>
<p>“Like everyone else in that damned city, he is…<em>so</em> in love with her, Hawke. The, uh, the rogue you keep bringing up.” The note of anxiety was back, lurking just under the surface of his words, though it felt different, somehow. The thought of bloodletting occurred to her again—uncomfortable at first, but necessary. “He suspects it for a very, <em>very</em> long time, but…but she’s the Champion, and he’s not the kind of person who gets included in stories like hers, so he keeps his head down. Or, you know. Tries to.”</p>
<p>“…how long?” It probably wasn’t the right question to ask in the moment, and yet it was the only one that came to her.</p>
<p>Varric’s laugh was just loud enough for her to make out from the other side of the wall separating them. “Long enough. He doesn’t realize <em>how</em> deep he’s in, though, until she does that incredibly stupid thing I mentioned before. Remember that? See, there comes a day where the city seems to explode in chaos. The Viscount, a benevolent if not somewhat standoffish figure, is murdered by an invading force. And the Champion decides it would be a wise idea to avenge that death by engaging in single combat with the leader of said invading force. An invading force, it stands to be noted, whose society focuses rather heavily on <em>combat training</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure my continued asides have begun to wear on you, but I think your protagonist’s something of an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all! In fact, I have to agree—not <em>completely</em>, of course, because don’t worry, she <em>wins</em> that duel and, by extension, finally earns that title of Champion—”</p>
<p>“But the losing’s louder.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got that right. There’s a moment there where the devilishly handsome rogue is <em>convinced</em> she’s—” <em>That</em> was a crack. Hawke was suddenly unspeakably relieved she’d moved to the bedroom before he’d started telling his tale; she didn’t think she would’ve been able to keep from searching his face as that silence stretched on. “It sure looks like she’s dead, is the thing. Exceptionally dead.”</p>
<p>Her teeth worried at her lower lip until she tasted salt. “Takes more than a single duel to kill a Champion,” she said after a beat, wondering whether her voice had been loud enough for him to hear. “Even if they don’t want to <em>be</em> a Champion.” She pulled a deep breath in through her nose and held it for as long as she was able.</p>
<p>“Apparently,” he said, and rather flatly, at that. “But she’s not dead. No one can really figure out <em>how</em> she’s not dead, but…she’s not. She gets her title, she’s brought to a healer, and all the while, all the devilishly handsome rogue can think is that if that <em>had</em> been the end of her story…if she <em>had</em> died…she would’ve died not knowing how much he…” His voice trailed off then, and she couldn’t blame him for that. She knew firsthand how hard it had been to get out.</p>
<p>By her count, the silence the followed lasted roughly forever. Hawke sat there, basting in the implications of it all, the pads of her fingers working at a knot in her neck as she waited…and waited…and waited some more. But save for the muffled sounds of clanking glasses and low, buzzing voices outside the room, the silence persisted.</p>
<p>The mattress (and her muscles) creaked as she began to slowly push herself up towards the edge of the bed. “And?” she asked, surprised and perhaps even a bit <em>alarmed</em> to hear the hope, the anticipation, in her own voice. “What happens next?”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t tell you.”</p>
<p>“Oh come <em>on</em>,” she said, her emphasis on the final word little more than a flimsy attempt to mask her groan of exertion as she took to her feet. “You’re the author—you must have <em>some</em> idea how the rest of it will go.” She couldn’t say why precisely, but she felt continuing the charade was the safer option…at least for the time being.</p>
<p>So too, it seemed, did Varric. “Don’t know what to tell you. If you hadn’t picked up on this, the whole damn thing has been one unexpected turn after another, so…” He glanced up from his writing as she joined him at the table, and there was a moment where she was sure he was about to shoot another admonishment her way; he’d tell her to go back to bed, or to stop walking around, or maybe even to go home where she’d be able to ache in peace and they could both pretend they’d never had this conversation.</p>
<p>Only…he didn’t. All he did was move a few papers to the side when he saw she meant to sit on the edge of the table.</p>
<p>“Stands to reason, then, that whatever happens next will be just as unpredictable.”</p>
<p>“And just as ridiculous,” she added helpfully, trying not to wince as she perched herself on the table, her legs two sore, overstuffed weights dangling to the side of his. “Probably just as <em>stupid</em>, too…and bloody, I’d wager.”</p>
<p>“Sounds about right,” he said with a tired chuckle, keeping his eyes not on her, but the small point of ink where his pen met his paper, the shape of it bleeding into something larger the longer his pause went on.</p>
<p>This was where, under normal circumstances, she’d energetically swing her legs or crack a joke or do something—<em>anything</em>—to keep from bringing attention to whatever it was that thrummed in the air between them. Circumstances <em>weren’t</em> normal just then, though—they’d never been farther from it. There, against the muted chatter of the Hanged Man, her muscles weak with the relief of living to fight another day, she couldn’t recall a single reason why she’d let any of it muddle her thoughts: partnerships and losses, others’ expectations and crossbow names. So she didn’t make a joke to shift the mood of the room and she certainly didn’t swing her legs (though that one was admittedly more a matter of doubt she even <em>could</em>).</p>
<p>“I suppose it really <em>doesn’t</em> make sense to try and predict the rest of it,” Hawke sighed, her fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough to hurt before she released it, allowing what remained of her apprehension to melt away. “Still…are you open to suggestions?”</p>
<p>“Oh, always,” Varric quipped back, having apparently decided to dig his heels twice as hard into the metaphorical dirt. “Unsolicited editorial notes are every writer’s best…” Something happened to that easygoing smirk of his when finally he looked up at her. There must’ve been something showing on her face. “…friend,” he finished lamely, his eyes dropping from hers for only a second, only a moment…</p>
<p>But that was all it took.</p>
<p>Hawke didn’t need to bend much, given the table’s height. She brought her hands to either side of his face and kissed him—kissed him without abandon, without doubt, without any of the mind-clouding bullshit that might’ve been there had she not caught the way he’d looked at her lips only a moment before.</p>
<p>She barely heard the noise of his pen being dropped before the warm weight of his hands on her sides stole away what remained of her attention, the pressure of his fingers soothing aches she hadn’t been aware of while managing (as if by magic) to avoid the worst of her bruising.</p>
<p>It felt, in a way, like the most natural thing in the world, as though it was something they’d been doing for years or even lifetimes. A part of her—<em>many</em> parts of her, in fact—suddenly wanted nothing more than to slide off of the table and onto his lap, to close what space was left between them…but that, Hawke knew, would have to wait for now, perhaps until she looked and felt a bit less like the things that sometimes washed ashore on the Wounded Coast after particularly bad storms.</p>
<p>Meaning to say something, she pulled away, her thumbs still mapping the curve of his cheekbones; “I think,” she began, though Varric leaned forward, following her, bringing their lips together again, and she lost her thought to a bout of delighted laughter.</p>
<p>“I think,” she said the second time around, breaking the kiss but setting her forehead against his such that they still breathed the same breath, “That whatever happens next, no matter how unpredictable or dangerous or downright <em>bizarre</em>…” It was impossible to control her smile as Varric laughed. “As long as the devilishly handsome rogue and the Champion who doesn’t want to be the Champion quit being thick and finally admit that they’re just…completely and utterly mad for one another…well, I think it has real promise as a story. In my humble opinion, it might even be the <em>greatest</em> story I’ve ever heard.” Hawke felt her smile grow pointed. “The greatest story I’ve ever heard from <em>you</em>, anyway…”</p>
<p>“Nice,” Varric chuckled, “Real nice, Hawke.”</p>
<p>If only her aches and pains would allow, she thought she could’ve stayed like that forever and a day, their lips close enough to brush, her thumbs slowly moving back and forth along the lines of his jaw, but something in her side chose that precise moment to twinge, forcing her to straighten her posture before it could become worse. She did her best to hide her grimace with a coy smile, gesturing vaguely with one hand as she joked, “Now, all of…<em>that</em>…the whole Champion not wanting to be Champion and the devilishly handsome rogue thing? That <em>was</em> about us, right? Because if it wasn’t…”</p>
<p>“<em>Hawke</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, will I ever have egg on my face, Varric.” She wouldn’t have called the breath he exhaled through his nose a laugh, exactly, but it was close enough for her taste. Without wasting more time than she already had on things as useless as doubt or uncertainty or even <em>thought</em>, she plucked the ink-stained page he’d been writing on from the table, setting it atop the ever-growing pile beside him, and then nodded towards his bedroom again. “I’m afraid your little story had quite the opposite of the intended effect: I am now <em>unbelievably</em> awake. So. What say you that you make it up to me by joining me and stroking my luxurious hair until I drop off? We can forego the warm milk and the scented oils this time. Sound fair?”</p>
<p>He watched her for a moment, the corners of his eyes creased by a smile made of relief and disbelief and amusement in equal measure, and then stood from his chair and took her hand in his, their fingers fitting together as though they’d been made to do just that. “Still don’t know any Fereldan folk songs,” he warned.</p>
<p>“Ah well,” Hawke said, feeling more alive and whole than perhaps she had any right to, considering the bandages, “I guess I could settle for a proper Marcher ballad or two, instead.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Hightown Funk, everyone!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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